


Dead Wood & Thorns

by ShannaraIsles



Series: The Rose In The Crown [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Clearing the air, Engaged Couple, F/M, Fluff, General adorability, New Relationship, also a bit of an info-dump, but setting the scene for the sequel to the previous fic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 10:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15579567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: Three weeks have passed since the announcement that King Alistair of Ferelden will marry Princess Felicita of Antiva on Summerday. In the midst of the celebrations and preparations, however, there are some things that can no longer be put off; some secrets that have to be told.





	Dead Wood & Thorns

Denerim was alive with gossip.

The royal wedding was set for Summerday, just five weeks away. Across the kingdom, plans were being drawn up for the celebration to be shared by all on that day. The palace had announced that any couple wed on the same day as the king would receive a pouch of twenty gold pieces as a wedding gift, and the Chantry of Ferelden already knew it would be hard at work to witness the vows of many couples eager to begin wedded life with such a fine gift to set them up.

Dwarves had set up workshops in the capital city; rumor had it they had been invited to craft a new crown for the queen-to-be. The seamstresses of the elven alienage in Denerim had been invited to sew the royal couple's wedding clothes; the Grey Wardens of Ferelden had been sent an invitation detailing some mysterious wish of the king's that no one could elaborate upon. Each day that passed brought some new tidbit to be shared and wrangled over in the streets and in visits with friends and neighbors ... and in the midst of all this, something _very_ juicy indeed was making the rounds.

Arl Eamon was abdicating his title and claim to Redcliffe in favor of his brother, Bann Teagan. Arl Eamon was seen leaving the palace with his Orlesian wife and all their personal possessions; seen re-entering his manor in the city that had stood empty for the last decade to take up residence there. Arl Eamon had been dismissed from the royal council, and from the king's confidences. Arl Eamon was in disgrace ... indeed, Arl Eamon was no longer an _arl_ at all.

Had these tidings come but a year earlier, the dispossessed arl might well have had the support of the populace in fighting against his dismissal; even a month earlier, and many would have deemed themselves sorry to see him go. But gossip and rumor thrive on their darker aspects, and news of his behavior toward the king during the Month of Ladies, as it was coming to be known, flew ahead of news of his misfortunes. Words shared in the street reminded everyone of the Orlesian agenda, and the arl's part in it; they intimated that the disgraced Lady Rosamunde's certainty of becoming queen had been encouraged in no small part by her place in Arl Eamon's bed - that she had been _his_ mistress when he sought to place her on the throne of Ferelden itself. They whispered of monies paid direct from Emperor Gaspard in return for supporting the Orlesian Delphine's claim to the king's affections. Thoughts turned to the open coldness he had displayed to the princess when she had been presented as the king's chosen bride; to the slighting way Arlessa Isolde spoke of the queen-to-be in public. Rumors flew that the reason Princess Felicita had been leaving when the king had finally proposed to her in the street was that she had been driven out of the palace by the snide machinations of Eamon and his wife. And that, of all the transgressions, was by far the worst. That the man could be so focused on his own power and influence that he would willingly attempt to sabotage the only hope their king had of happiness in his personal life could not easily be forgiven by the commons.

How far a man can fall in the estimation of the people is always difficult to predict, for there will always be some who continue to hold him in high esteem, but one thing was clear - King Alistair had finally had enough of the arl that had forced the crown upon his head, and the people agreed with him.

Who had much care to give to an old man who was wealthy beyond common dreams? Especially when there was the excitement of a royal wedding and the progress that would follow. The people of Ferelden were truly joyous at the thought of finally seeing for themselves their King Alistair with his _wife_ , who would be their own Queen Fabs. Alistair's method of addressing his betrothed had not gone unnoticed by the crowd gathered around her coach on the day he had proposed to her, and despite the fact that all the official proclamations made reference to her as _Princess Felicita_ , the epithet of _Queen Fabs_ was spreading like wildfire. Add to that the delightful addition to the royal household of little Lady Maria, the attempt at insult from the Rivain Chantry, and the people could not help but be pleased with the occupants of the palace.

They didn't know that the final straw had come with Eamon's insulting declaration that the princess' dowry was paltry and not acceptable, and his continued suggestions that it was not too late for the king to change his mind. Alistair had finally had enough when Isolde had been caught instructing her own servants not to get too comfortable with the notion of an Antivan queen, because Felicita would not long persevere against the arl's blandishments and rudeness. Those servants had, of course, told their colleagues in the palace, and the king's valet, Seamus, had risked an explosion of temper very rarely witnessed in his master to make sure Alistair knew all about it. The arl was leaving in disgrace - worse for his own position, his invitation to attend the wedding and the celebrations had been revoked.

It had only been three weeks since the proposal and announcement. Felicita could not quite believe just how much had been accomplished in that time, nor just how much Eamon and his wife had decided to hate her purely for not being Orlesian. But there were other people to enjoy. Ciara and Ceri had remained in Denerim, and it seemed reasonable to assume that Ciara would stay on as the first of the new queen's ladies after the wedding. Anora had volunteered to teach the queen-to-be everything she needed to know about the politics and culture of her new homeland. Maria was a constant joy, submitting to lessons without complaint so long as she could spend time with Alistair and Felicita every day. At the princess' request, Andra had been designated her ladies-maid - a big step up for an elven servant whose immediate superior had thought a princess would not like to have an elf always at hand. While Leona and Callista had returned to Starkhaven and Nevarra respectively, they had both promised to attend the wedding with warm enthusiasm; surprisingly, even Delphine had accepted the king's decision without argument, offered her congratulations, and left without making a fuss. Fabs felt safe and wanted in her new home, looking forward to her wedding day with eager anticipation.

Not that she was kept apart from Alistair during that time, oh no. Their gentle assurances of love to one another were repeated daily, not so much in words as in actions. They shared breakfast and dinner together with Maria without fail; when he could manage it, Alistair came looking for his princess and his ward in the middle of the afternoon to snatch a few hours in their company. After dinner each evening was the only truly private time the betrothed couple shared, though even then there was a guard on the door with orders to risk being demoted by interrupting anything _too_ intimate before the wedding.

Tonight, though, something seemed a little ... off.

Alistair was his usual warm, affectionate self, but she could have sworn there was something playing on his mind - something he didn't want Maria to have any notion of. Fabs was happy enough to keep from asking throughout dinner, smiling along with Maria's excited plans for her riding lesson tomorrow and her outrage at Maferath's betrayal of Andraste. Actually _reading_ the history of Andraste was a new experience for the little girl who, despite having been raised in a Chantry thus far, didn't know that much about the Bride of the Maker or why she was so important. Yet even she seemed to understand that something was bothering "Mr. Kingness". When the time came for her to go off to bed in the care of Golda, the young woman who had originally been assigned as her ladies-maid, Maria did not complain as she usually did, handing out her perfunctory kisses and enthusiastic hugs before leaving the betrothed couple alone together.

Yet Alistair did not then come to sit beside Fabs on the couch, as was his habit. His frown returned as he stood at the mantle, staring into the dance of the crackling flames. Fabs found herself frowning with him, deep concern now beginning to rise in her heart.

"Alistair?" she ventured, choosing to rise herself and join him by the fire. _"Cariño?"_

He couldn't help smiling at the tender endearment she had given him. He did love the way it sounded, the fact that she reserved that word for him and him alone. But tonight his smile was a little bittersweet, a kind of fear crackling at the very edges of his being. Would she ever call him that again after she had learned everything he had to tell her?

"I know you are not at ease with yourself, _cariño_ ," Fabs said, gently teasing her hand into his to lace their fingers affectionately. "Maria does not suspect a thing, but ... I do not like to see you troubled. Is there anything I may do to help you?"

Her concern seemed only to increase his troubled expression, but he turned to her at last, taking both her hands in his.

"Fabs, my darling Fabs, I ..." He hesitated, but seemed to resolve himself. "I have something I need to tell you. I would not have you enter marriage with me blind to this, but ... I don't know how to begin."

Alarm rippled through her heart. Whatever this something was, Alistair clearly thought it a great shame, a terrible burden on his heart to hold in secret. He might even be afraid of sharing it with her, who had no great secrets and certainly none at all from him.

"It cannot be so very terrible," she said aloud, hoping to help him bolster his courage in sharing whatever this was. "I love you. I believe I _know_ you, the man you are, and there is little that I would not forgive, especially an action of years gone by when we were not known to one another."

Alistair almost winced at her words, heaving out a great sigh as he shook his head. "I don't think this is something that can be forgiven, Fabs," he said wretchedly. "I love you, I don't want to think of a life without you, but ... you deserve to know everything, and if you decide against me because of it, I would not blame you. I should have said something sooner."

"Alistair ..." She pulled one hand from his, raising her fingers to touch his cheek. "You are beginning to scare me, _cariño_. Just tell me, please, and allow me to make my own decision. Do not push me away before you say a word. If you love me, then you trust me."

"Of course I trust you!" he burst out, his cheek tilting automatically into the curve of her hand. "All right, yes, I _am_ afraid. I'm afraid that I'm going to hurt you by telling you this, and that's the last thing I ever want to do."

"You are frightening me by extending the wait," she told him honestly. "I do not believe it could possibly be so bad as you are forcing yourself to believe. So tell me, and let me react to it as I will."

He nodded slowly, looking down as her hands once again joined with his. She could feel the calluses on his palms and fingers, proof of the years he had spent with a weapon and shield in his hands before being entreated to take the crown that now weighed so heavily on his brow. He squeezed her hands gently, gave her a gentle tug, and she followed without a second thought to the couch, to sit once more and give him her full attention. The firelight played over his troubled expression for a long moment until, at last, he took her advice.

"I have a son."

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. _A son? But .. the whole point of his marrying is to gain heirs, surely? If he has a_ \- She stopped her thoughts right there. Alistair knew what it was to be bastard child; knew the dangers and privations of not being exactly what was required. If this son were a viable option for an heir, he would have acknowledged him publicly and brought him to Denerim long before the Landsmeet insisted upon their king finding a wife. There was more to this than mere parentage.

"I do not know where he is," Alistair went on, watching her carefully as he spoke. "All I know is that he is with his mother, and I have assurances from a mutual friend that he is loved and cared for. His mother is an apostate mage; it is reasonable to assume that the boy will be a mage, too. That alone makes him unsuitable for the throne."

"Did you love his mother?" she heard herself ask, too late to stop herself. It was such a petty thing to ask at such a time.

To her surprise, Alistair laughed out loud. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh," he was quick to say, though the smile that thought had raised remained on his face for a long moment as he spoke. "Morrigan and I ... learned to be civil to each other after several months traveling together. But I would not say we were ever friends, or anything closer than that."

"Then how is it that you have a child together?"

Her confusion was understandable. Despite her position in society, her understanding that many people married and bore children with men and women they distinctly disliked, there was no such legal bond here that she could see. So why would Alistair have lain with a woman he _disliked_ as often as was necessary to make a child?

He raised a hand, pushing his fingers through his hair - a habit she had noticed only came out when he was very wary of saying what needed next to be said. Her eyes narrowed as she considered the implications.

"When did this happen?" she asked suddenly.

He blinked, surprised by the question but glad to have some guidance on how to get into the worst of this news of his.

"The night before Dem and I took on the archdemon," he told her, and smiled as the confusion rose on her face.

"I ... you lay together just one night, and a son was born of it?" Fabs was both amazed and shocked.

"I never slept with her," Alistair told her, quickly holding up a hand to still her disbelief. "Please, just ... this is very complicated and all tied up with the Blight. I am technically breaking my oath as a Grey Warden to make sure you understand everything involved with this."

Concerned by how very serious this now seemed - far more serious than the matter of a bastard son out there in the world, even - Fabs fell silent, all her attention given to the man she loved as he struggled to explain something that appeared to be far more complex than on first acquaintance.

"You know that Grey Wardens are the only ones who can kill an archdemon and end a Blight," he began, resuming his hold on her hands as though he needed that physical connection simply to speak the truth. "That is because of the Joining; it marks us as being something similar to the darkspawn. I, uh ... I can't tell you exactly _how_ the Joining gives us that ability. Just be aware that if anyone but a Grey Warden lands a killing blow on an archdemon, the archdemon's soul, their essence, will transfer into the nearest darkspawn. It doesn't die, is what I am saying."

"But if a Grey Warden strikes the blow, then that essence transfers into the Warden themselves?" she asked, hoping she was right. A dreadful thought occurred to her. "Does that mean that you - or Demelza - have the soul of an archdemon inside you?"

"No." Alistair sighed, looking down at their joined hands. "When a Grey Warden kills an archedemon, that Warden also dies. But Morrigan had a way to save both of us, Dem and me, if we were prepared to help her make a baby. It was an ancient spell - blood magic, I think - but the end result was that, through the connection forged between her and the two of us, the archdemon's soul would be cleansed of the Blight and enter the baby in her womb."

"So the boy's mother, your son's mother, is a maleficarum -" Fabs began, but surprisingly, Alistair shook his head.

"I would have said the same years ago," he told her, "but I have learned through experience that a maleficarum is a danger to themselves and all those around them. Morrigan is a good mother, according to my friends who have seen her in the last year; a loving mother, who does everything she can to protect and nurture her son. A maleficarum could not do that. Yes, she may initially have intended the boy to be a tool for her use, but it would seem that not even she is immune to the bond between a mother and her child."

"What was ... required of you, for this spell?" she asked then, unsure she truly wanted to know.

He blushed, glancing away. "I, ah ... I don't, I don't think you need to know the details," he said uncomfortably. "Suffice it to say that something of mine was necessary, and something of Dem's, and all the magic was done by Morrigan. Clearly it worked, or we might both have died in the same instant the archdemon was ended."

"And you have no contact with the boy at all?"

"None." Alistair again shook his head. "And it _is_ better this way. Morrigan and I ... we hated each other at first sight. I have been told that, in her own words, the boy believes his father was a good man, and that is all. I am content with the way things are. He could never be king after me, but he has the constant love and protection of his mother, something I never had myself."

"Oh, Alistair ..."

All at once, her concern and alarm fled, reminded once more of the isolation and pain of his childhood - pain that remained in the lack of knowing just who his mother had been in the first place. She reached up to cradle his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"I will not say I am glad to know this truth, but I am glad that you trust me enough to share it," she told him quietly. "It will never pass my lips; it is a secret that will die with me. And it changes nothing between us."

The hope that lifted his gaze was heart-wrenching to see, to acknowledge that he had honestly thought he might lose her love in sharing this dark episode from his past. His hands covered hers for a brief moment, falling to smooth over her waist, to draw her closer to him as his brow found a place to rest against her own forehead.

"I was so afraid you might not forgive me," he murmured, eyes closed against the pain that thought gave him.

Fabs felt her lips curve in a tender smile, drawing her arms about his shoulders to press closed into his embrace. Her cheek brushed his as, with barely a sound, he lifted her onto his lap, burying his face against the curve of her neck and shoulder.

"There is nothing to forgive," she whispered to him. "If the boy was suffering, if the deed was done unwilling by any party ... that would need forgiveness. How can I blame you for surviving? For taking the only chance offered that would allow you to live long enough that I could love you?"

She felt his lips part in a soft kiss against the line of her neck, felt his hands tighten against her back before relaxing to wrap about her waist and hold her there for as long as she allowed it.

"I do love you, Fabs," he promised, muffled against her skin. "I have never felt anything like this before. You are ... so beautiful. So much more than I deserve."

She snorted with laughter, drawing back to lift his chin and look into his eyes, shaking her amusement at his insistence that she was somehow the more worthy of their pairing.

"You know I do not agree with that," she reminded him in a fond tone. "Each day I know you, I love you more. And soon, _cariño_ , you will never be able to be rid of me."

"I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to that," he admitted, his cheerful smile almost shy. "Despite everything, I am ridiculously pleased Eamon convinced the Landsmeet to invite you here in the first place."

She rolled her eyes. "I do not think Bann Eamon agrees with you any longer," she pointed out, but he dismissed that concern with a grin, a wave of his hand, the touch of his nose to hers.

"The consequences of his actions are long overdue," he told his betrothed. "And I am not inclined to talk about one stuffy old man when I have an armful of Antivan princess."

"Just the one armful?" she teased. "I shall have to try harder."

"Oh, please do," was Alistair's laughing answer, pulling her even closer. "The temptation is too much to resist. I'm a bad, bad man ..."

Laughter fell to kisses, to caresses, to tender touches and soft words spoken in this private time of theirs - never too overt, never too intimate, but affection shared in the relief of knowing that a decision made a decade in the past could not shake the reality of the love they had found so unexpectedly together. Perhaps one day she might even meet this Morrigan and the boy, but for now, Fabs was content simply to know of them. To know that they held no prior claim upon the heart of the man she loved, nor would their existence cause trouble for the king who would make her his queen.

If the crown of Ferelden were a rose bush, then the last of the thorns and dead wood had been stripped away, ready for spring and the bursting forth of new buds to greet the summer. Looking back never did anyone good ... and there was much to look forward to.


End file.
